


the eye of a needle

by iphido



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Extended Metaphors, M/M, Multiverse, Reincarnation, the bluest hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphido/pseuds/iphido
Summary: Someone is calling his name.Kageyama! Kageyama, come find me!If only he could remember who.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Kunimi Akira, Minor or Background Relationship(s), background Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 21
Kudos: 168





	the eye of a needle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal/gifts).



> warnings for: slightly graphic talk of needles (specifically, sutures), implied off-screen death, mild sexual content, implied homophobia
> 
> but only for the first half :-) enjoy!

once in a while,  
we should look into each other's eyes.  
otherwise we might feel lost. 

_Rinko Kawauchi, “the eyes, the ears”_

* * *

Before his senses spiral out of control, he makes out the last few words shouted through the torrent of wind.

_Kageyama! Kageyama, come find me!_

The air roars and swirls and rattles his bones. He can’t even get his eyes open to see who called him. He can’t remember. His ears pop. Starbursts crackle behind his eyelids. His whole being slips through the eye of a needle, then—

Nothing.

* * *

_Kyoto Prefecture, 1716._

The woodcutter’s son was tall for his age, or so all of the village aunties said. Tobio had never met him formally, since he’d had no need for wood and therefore no need to go to the house at the edge of the forest. But Tooru-nii had the strangest urge to make a new brush. So here Tobio was, walking down the dirt road to the woodcutter’s house. Tooru had shoved a long dagger in his pack before he departed, to guard against _ruffians and the like, now be on your merry way, Tobio-chan_.

There were two boys in the wide, open space in front of the house. One of them was tall, taller than Tobio, with hair that stuck up like a pinecone. The other sat on his haunches in the grass. Black hair hung on both sides of his face like ink. He was fiddling with a kite, blue as ocean waves. Neither of them had noticed Tobio.

“Excuse me,” he said. They looked up. “Um… I need some wood.”

They stared. Then the tall one said, “Okay. I’ll get my dad,” and ran off to the house.

The other boy stood up. He was about a stone’s throw away. Tobio was taller than him. “You’re Oikawa-sama’s brother,” the boy said.

Tobio shook his head. “No, I’m just his cousin. My name is Kageyama, not Oikawa. Kageyama Tobio.”

“I apologize. I’m Kunimi Akira.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t know the woodcutter had two sons.”

“He doesn’t.” Akira’s hands tightened around the kite, then loosened. “My mother is the dressmaker.”

“Oh.” Tobio pursed his lips. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Oh. Me too.”

They were quiet. The grass was a healthy yellow, if slightly overgrown. It rustled pleasantly. Tobio thought the breeze wasn’t strong enough to fly a kite, but maybe in a couple of hours.

The woodcutter came back with his son. “I’m Kindaichi. How can I help you?”

Tobio bowed. “I need wood that’s good for a brush handle. I don’t require a lot.”

“I can do that. Come with me,” said the woodcutter. “Yuutarou, behave yourself.”

Yuutarou—his son—cawed. “We’re not doing anything wrong!” But the woodcutter was already walking to the woods.

“Thank you,” Tobio said to the boys, tipping his head, and then he scurried off to follow Kindaichi-san.

  
  


“I had a new yukata made for Kiyoko-chan,” Tooru told him the next week. They were sitting on the porch. Tooru’s leg was extended in front of him. Tobio wondered if his knee was sore again. “Go pick it up for me.”

“Tooru-nii,” Tobio complained. “First, where did you find the money to commission one? Second, why me?”

“This will benefit our family in the long run, Tobio-chan. Don’t you worry about that.” Tooru shoved another peach slice into his mouth. “Who else would I send? Now go, she expects someone in fifteen minutes. I paid in advance.”

Tobio hung his head, grumbling. First Tooru took the last peach, and now this. He missed Iwa-san. He’d rather be fighting beside Iwa-san in Kyoto than doing errands for his spoiled cousin.

He stood anyway and went into the village. The dressmaker’s house was near the town center. Purple and white orchids sprouted from the sides of the house. A bell chimed. The wind was even gentler than it was yesterday.

“Tobio-kun?”

Tobio turned. The boy from the other week was a few feet away. He had a basket of radishes and cabbages hooked under one arm. “Hello,” Tobio said. “My cousin sent me to pick up a yukata.”

“Ah. Come in, then.” Akira stepped past him to enter the house, slipping off his waraji. Tobio followed, leaving his geta by the doorway.

He stepped inside and blinked immediately at his vibrant surroundings. Fabrics of every color and texture lined the leftmost wall. Skeins of thread sat in various baskets and boxes. On his right side, several kimono stands boasted beautiful patterns: lilies, dragons, tigers, sakura. “Mother,” Akira called.

“Akira! Is that you?” a woman’s voice responded. A shoji screen slid open and the dressmaker stepped out, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Oh!”

Tobio bowed. “Hello, I’m here to pick up a yukata for Oikawa-san.” Akira slipped inside another room wordlessly, basket still in his arm.

The dressmaker nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right back and bring it out.” She went back the way she came. Tobio stayed in place but let his eyes wander. The most beautiful kimono in the room was a deep blue. Cranes swooped between bundles of flowers, diving, playing. Tobio tilted his head and watched the sheen of silk ripple and diffuse.

A screen slid open. Akira came out, hands behind his back. “Yuutarou and I are going to play tomorrow. Would you like to come?”

Tobio had never been asked to play before. “Where? When?” Maybe he could worm his way out of calligraphy lessons.

“Two hours before noontime. We’re going to meet at Yuu’s house.”

“Sure,” Tobio said. Tooru was always calling him a loner, and if he went, he wouldn’t be called that anymore.

Kunimi-san came back with a package wrapped carefully in linen. She placed it carefully in Tobio’s arms, like it was a baby, except he’d never carried an infant before. “Here it is. Oikawa-san already paid, so you’re free to leave.”

Tobio bowed again. “Thank you.” He looked at Akira. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Akira-kun.”

He left the house. The smell of orchids followed him all the way home.

  
  


“Be careful, Tobio-chan!” Tooru shouted, but he was already dashing away. It turned out that Tooru had hidden some peaches. Tobio snagged two extras for his new friends and demanded to be let out of the house. He hurried down the dirt path, kicking dust behind him. When he got close enough he spotted Akira and Yuutarou in the grass. They waved him over.

“Hi,” Tobio said, out of breath. He held out the peaches, one in each palm. Their eyes lit up.

“Wow, thanks Tobio!” said Yuutarou, taking one. He bit into it immediately. Akira did the same.

They started towards the woods. Tobio hesitated. “Is it safe?” he said, not moving.

Akira looked over his shoulder. “We play in the woods all the time. And if we get lost, we follow the moss to the creek, then back here.”

Hm. The trees weren’t particularly dense, though they were tall. Their green leaves provided a decent amount of shade. Tobio thought he could hear rushing water in the distance. “Cool,” he said, but secretly he would stick to one of them at all times, at least until he became familiar with the place.

The peach was perfect and juicy. He still remembered the day Iwa-san brought the sapling. How they’d knelt in the dirt together with Tooru and covered the mound with careful hands. Tobio had been only six, then, and Iwa-san had been home and not off fighting Dog Heads.

“This way!” said Yuutarou. Tobio trailed behind them, watching his steps and avoiding any protruding roots.

Eventually they came to a small creek. The bank sloped gently and dipped into the water, flowing clear and slow.

“This is our river!” Yuutarou threw his arms out.

Akira rolled his eyes. “Yuu calls it a river, but I keep telling him it’s a creek.”

Tobio stared at the running water. It was barely wider than a wheelbarrow was long, bank-to-bank. “I think it’s a creek too.”

Akira’s lips turned up in a smile. He pointed to a nearby tree. A piece of twine wrapped around the branch nearest to where they came from, and a shock of yellow cloth dangled from the wrappings. “That’s how we find our way. And the moss on the tree trunks grows towards the creek.”

Tobio looked. Near the roots, green fuzz was growing. “Good to know.”

“Let’s look for frogs,” Yuutarou said, tossing his peach pit to the side. He crept towards the bank with wide intent eyes.

Tobio did not like frogs. But Akira was already moving, so he followed and scoured the mossy rocks for the slimy creatures. “Here, froggy-froggy.”

 _Ribbit._ Further along the creek, a small green lump rested on a rock. “Found one!” said Akira. He and Yuutarou bounded after it.

Tobio found himself laughing too, chasing.

They flew over the dirt, skipping, and after the frog had long since retreated, started a game of tag. He hid behind tree trunks, swung by his arms from wooden limbs, ducked as Akira and Yuutarou swiped at him. He hadn’t laughed this much in many months. It felt like weeks Tobio had been in that forest, come noontime.

They emerged from the trees when the sun was high. “You’re fun, Tobio,” said Akira. “Come play tomorrow.”

“Sure!” Tobio waved at them both before scurrying down the dirt road. If he was late for lunch, Tooru-nii might not let him return.

  
  


It didn’t matter in the end. That night, the Dog Heads stormed the village. A limp body hung from a horse’s back. Oikawa Tooru was struck down, sobbing, in the square. You could see the flames for miles. The dressmaker’s lovely fabrics were ash by morning.

* * *

Not this one, then. The makings of a tapestry are there, but the thread is cut short.

* * *

_Kobe, 2143._

Kageyama knew this face. It was a little leaner, rougher, but so was his own. There was a scar on Kunimi’s forearm that hadn’t been there before. It was long and gnarled and even paler than the rest of him.

The last time he saw Kunimi—before last night’s raid, at least—was four years ago. It was an ordinary evening in the Seijoh canteen. The other soldiers at their table were laughing at a joke Matsukawa-san had made. Kunimi had cracked a smile, not one to burst into giggles. Kageyama had watched him, debating whether to tell him the truth, or Kindaichi, but the risk was too great. That night, he’d escaped and never looked back.

He dipped the washcloth into the bucket and ran it along Kunimi’s arms. He wondered what Kunimi would do when he woke up. Try to punch him, probably, but that was what Tanaka-san was here for. Plus there were restraints around Kunimi’s wrists and ankles. But a cot was a cot, and if somebody thrashed hard enough, they could topple it over. He might tear his stitches out. 

Kunimi twitched. Kageyama’s heart leaped to his throat. He withdrew the washcloth and scooted his chair back.

Kunimi’s eyes flickered open, a match struck. The flame fizzled and settled. Kageyama found himself staring into eyes he thought he’d never see again.

Kunimi flexed his fingers. “You.”

Kageyama stared back. “Tanaka-san, the patient’s awake,” he said. In the corner Tanaka stirred, cracked his neck, and left the room. Kageyama exhaled. “Kunimi.”

“Where am I?”

“Karasuno.” There was no use lying. Sawamura-san would tell him anyway.

A sharp intake of breath. “I heard rumors. I didn’t think they were true. What are you doing with them?”

“What are you still doing with Seijoh?” Kageyama fired back. He looked pointedly at Kunimi’s scar. “Did Kyoutani do that?”

Kunimi clenched his jaw.

“What, Yahaba wasn’t there to muzzle his dog?”

“Yahaba’s dead.”

Kageyama fell silent.

“I still can’t believe you. You were being groomed to succeed Oikawa. You could’ve been General,” Kunimi spat. “Now you’re here in the gutter.”

“You’re fighting a losing battle.”

“So are you,” Kunimi fired back.

“At least I can sleep at night,” Kageyama said. “That blue castle can’t sustain itself.”

“You can sleep at night? I thought you sent your friends on suicide missions.”

Kageyama’s eyes screwed up in pain. The loss of Sugawara was still an open wound. When he opened them again Kunimi’s face twisted in bitter victory.

Footsteps. Kageyama glanced over his shoulder. Sawamura looked no better than he had for the last eighteen days. “You’re dismissed, Kageyama,” he sighed. “I’ll take it from here.”

Kageyama nodded. He met Kunimi’s eyes, dark and stormy, for a single moment, before he left the room.

  
  


Kageyama didn’t speak to Kunimi for another two days. There was work to do all around the base—barriers to repair, stew to cook, perimeters to patrol. As far as he knew, Kunimi had been moved to a single room with one guard on him at all times. He was allowed to go to and from the cafeteria and to relieve himself, but nowhere else.

The evening after Kunimi woke up, Kageyama saw him in the cafeteria. He was spooning seaweed soup into his mouth, a sour look on his face. Narita-san and Kinoshita-san sat across from him, their backs to Kageyama. Their guns nestled securely in their belts.

Kunimi looked up, right at Kageyama standing in line. It was a cruel, piercing gaze. Kageyama looked away, migrated to the far end of the room, and focused on keeping Seijoh out of his head. Hinata and Yamaguchi badgered him for more information about the base’s newest _(temporary)_ resident, but he sealed his mouth shut. Some doors were better left closed.

On the third morning, Nishinoya came to fetch Kageyama. “Bring your kit,” he said. Kageyama grabbed the sturdy box from a cabinet. Nishinoya led them to the single room where Kunimi was being held. Tanaka leaned against the wall. The door was open. Sawamura’s low voice filtered into the hallway. “Go on,” said Nishinoya.

Kageyama stepped inside. The room was tiny and sparse. There was no lamp to provide light, only a small window near the ceiling. The bed was narrow, but at least there was a mattress, however lumpy. A stack of worn books sat in the corner.

“So you’re just going to let me _leave?_ ” Kunimi was saying. He sat on the bed glaring up at Sawamura.

Sawamura’s arms were crossed. “We don’t keep prisoners here.”

“I think you’re all idiots.”

Sawamura sighed. He turned to Kageyama in the doorway. “Check that his stitches aren’t infected, then we’ll send him off.”

Kageyama nodded. He stepped forward and placed the first aid on the floor, kneeling. The latex gloves were hard to snap on. “Lift your shirt, please,” he said.

Kunimi sighed and obeyed. The shrapnel had cut a long line from his navel almost to his armpit, but it hadn’t been deep. Kageyama peeled the bandages back, gingerly as he could. Kunimi’s breathing was heavy. His ribs poked out a little and there was almost no fat on his belly. They must not have had as much food at the blue castle as Kageyama remembered.

The skin around the thread was pinched and tenderly red, but there wasn’t any pus, nor could Kageyama smell any foul odor. He didn’t have any worries; he had placed the sutures himself. It’d taken him hours.

“As long as you don’t exert yourself, they should heal.” After tugging off his gloves, he closed the first aid kit and stood. Kunimi dropped his shirt and fisted his hands in the scratchy blanket.

“Alright. Let’s move,” Sawamura said. “Kageyama, you’re coming with us. Meet at the gates in five.”

Ten minutes later, the remnants of the city blurred past him. Kunimi sat across, jostled with every bump in the road. A blindfold was tied securely over his eyes. Tanaka and Sawamura were on either side of him, gripping his upper arms. Azumane was in the driver’s seat, eyes peeled for scouts or rogues lurking between buildings. They drove and drove, almost to Kyoto, as far as Kageyama could tell. When they passed an old shrine in the countryside, overrun by vines, Sawamura whistled.

“Here.”

Azumane brought the truck to a halt. Sawamura jerked his head. “You first, Kageyama.”

Kageyama unlocked the back doors and hopped out. He held them open for Tanaka and Sawamura to haul Kunimi out of the truck.

“You kept me alive, only to execute me in the middle of nowhere?” Kunimi’s voice was brittle steel. Kageyama could shatter it with a single strike.

“We’re not here to execute you.” Sawamura untied the blindfold and pulled it away. Kunimi squinted at the light. It was midday in the middle of summer. The sun was half-veiled behind soft clouds. Sawamura removed the strip of cloth restraining Kunimi’s wrists, as well.

Tanaka reached into the truck and tossed something to Kunimi, who caught it with both hands. The water bottle sloshed. Kunimi stared at it.

“We’re twelve kilometers from Kyoto,” Sawamura said, pointing down the road. “Walk that way and you’ll reach the suburbs. It shouldn’t be hard to find the castle from there.”

Tanaka climbed into the truck. Sawamura followed. Kageyama stared at Kunimi one last time. He stared back. Surrounded by the lush green, he looked lost.

Kageyama gripped the door handle, stepped inside, and swung it shut. The engine growled, and they drove back to the nest. Back home.

  
  


Six years ago, on Kunimi’s eighteenth birthday, Iwaizumi unearthed two bottles of premium alcohol—the drinking kind—for the members of the compound to share. They’d just come back from a successful raid, untouchable, unstoppable. The stinging liquid flowed freely down Tobio’s throat. Oikawa, in his drunkenness, even threw an arm around his shoulder and swayed to the beat of Hanamaki’s folk song.

Kunimi’s eyes were on him. Tobio could always tell. Across rooms, as they sat next to each other, crouching behind an abandoned car. Kunimi threw back the shot of sake, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slipped away from the group.

Tobio waited two minutes before he ducked under Oikawa’s bicep and went back inside. His heart raced; his boots were deafening against the linoleum. Make a left, down the hall, room number thirteen. He had never been more afraid than when he raised his hand to knock.

The door opened. The lights were off, shrouding them both in darkness, yet Kunimi’s face was as clear as a full moon. “Took you long enough,” Kunimi said, his voice low, and tugged Tobio inside.

  
  


When the leaves began to turn fiery red and trickle down from their branches, Kageyama woke to clamor. Hinata was banging on his headboard, hovering over him with panicked eyes. “They’re here. They found us.”

Kageyama didn’t need to ask. Karasuno’s long-term policy of not keeping prisoners had finally caught up to them. He sat up and laced his boots, grabbed the gun against the wall, and followed Hinata. Tsukishima was at the end of the hall, dragging Yamaguchi after him. Kageyama darted after them, treading down the stairs and into the courtyard. He leaped out of the building, gun trained on the Seijoh soldier vaulting down from the barrier. Aim for the legs, he thought, when a blunt force slammed into his temple. Spots filled his vision. Someone screamed his name. A gunshot.

A hand fisted his collar and hauled him up. He blinked away stars. Oikawa’s regal face grinned down at him. “Long time no see, Tobio-chan.”

Kageyama’s head flew to the side. His cheek stung from the slap. He gasped, partly in pain, but mostly shock. His friends were shouting and struggling all around him, yet horribly, selfishly, he could only think about himself as Oikawa dragged him past the gates. _They’re going to kill me. They’re going to make it hurt._

Oikawa threw him into the back of a truck. Faces sneered down at him, familiar yet alien. Kunimi’s eyes were cold. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, Kageyama.”

* * *

A needle piercing pale skin, a rough thread tugging through flesh—neither of these is beautiful. Kunimi is meant for beautiful things.

Next time.

* * *

_New York City, 1987._

“Are you ever going to let me meet him?”

Tobio sighed. “There will be no meeting, Miwa. I don’t even—” He rubbed a hand over his face and sunk deeper into the pillows. Akira was past the doors, leaning against the balcony rail. A cigarette was in his hand. He wore only boxers. The dip of his back was elegant and swanlike. “You don’t need to meet him.”

“Can I at least visit you, then?”

“If you can find the time.” His sister had her schedule full, busy making shitloads of money for Wall Street tycoons. She dealt with too many numbers and far too many douches for his tastes. She bought him this phone, though, so he couldn’t begrudge her profession too much.

A sigh. “Alright. It’s getting late. I’ll talk to you soon, Tobio.”

“Bye.” He placed the phone back in its dock on the bedside table. He stared at the ceiling and listened to the sounds of the city.

Cars passed on the avenues below. Distant music played, maybe from an apartment a few floors down. Akira’s quiet inhales and exhales. Tobio tried to match his own breathing to the sultry rhythm. Sultry, everything about Akira was sultry. Sometimes Tobio couldn’t believe his own luck.

Three months ago, he’d locked eyes with a man across the bar and felt the breath leave his body quicker than you could say _danger._

Akira Kunimi wore copious amounts of eyeliner, drove a motorcycle, and had allegedly met Keith Haring in ‘82. As Tobio learned later, he kissed like there was no tomorrow. In the dark alleyway behind the bar Akira had hissed into his mouth, “I’m clean, I’m safe, I promise, I always use protection.”

Tobio had always been too trusting. But in this case, it paid off, miraculously. He’d learned much more about Akira in the time since.

The bed dipped. At some point, his eyes had fallen closed. Akira was above him. He seemed to harness all the darkness in the room like a shroud, yet Tobio was somehow blinded. Akira dipped down to kiss him open-mouthed, tasting like smoke. Tobio had never had an affinity for cigarettes. Nancy Reagan’s chants of _Just Say No_ seemed to have ill effect on Akira, though.

A moan passed between them. Tobio couldn’t be sure from whom it came. Akira grabbed his hand, and guided it to the junction of their hips rutting together. “Tobio,” he whispered, shuddering with each flick of Tobio’s wrist. “One more time. Before we sleep. One more.”

In the same instant, Tobio felt both that he was lost and that he _had_ lost. He rolled them over and obeyed.

  
  


Only two people in his life knew about Akira. This small number was out of necessity. If the group at St. Matthew’s found out that Tobio was attracted to men—that he _slept_ with men—it wouldn’t matter that he was the best surgeon this side of the Hudson. He’d be done for.

It was a given that Miwa knew. She had known Tobio was gay since he was six, according to her. It took two weeks of fooling-around-but-not-really with Akira for Tobio to finally spill everything to his sister. She’d hugged him, tears streaming from her eyes.

“I’m so happy for you, Tobio,” she whispered. He heard the fear in her voice, though. _Be careful, please be careful._

The second person who knew was Oikawa, a fellow surgeon in Tobio’s ward. He knew because Tobio knew. Oikawa’s boyfriend worked for a high school district in Queens. The risks for Tooru and Hajime were even higher than they were for Tobio. He supposed he was lucky that Akira was self-employed, that art could be anonymous or under a pseudonym.

Their worries were the same as his own. He and Akira were always careful, but some things were in fate’s hands. Tobio lost a friend in college to the virus. He’d watched the fat melt away from his face and belly and thighs, held him while he sobbed in front of the toilet, the sores too painful to bear. It terrified Tobio. It made him hate himself.

In reality, Tobio was afraid at almost any given moment. He wished at times he could slice his own chest open with a scalpel, clamp the major arteries, and tug out his beating heart. It was a black and cursed thing, and so damn heavy. But each second in Akira’s presence made him feel weightless— wanted— like there was some puzzle he’d yet to solve.

  
  


On a Thursday morning, coming off a fourteen-hour shift, Tobio met Akira at Dave’s Bagel & Coffee on Thirteenth. He rubbed his bleary eyes and let Akira shoo him to a standing table to wait. The shop was crowded and loud and Tobio just wanted a coffee.

Into one of Tobio’s hands, Akira shoved an everything bagel slathered in cream cheese. Into the other, he placed a crisp blue flyer.

“My art show is next weekend,” Akira said as Tobio scanned the paper.

Tobio glanced up. Akira’s face was still, save his eyes, which trembled. “You’ve never shown me your art before.”

Akira’s shoulders lowered, just a fraction. “Well, most of it’s quite personal.” He bit into his bagel.

“Yet you’re having an art show.”

Akira rested his elbow on the table. He peeked at Tobio through his lashes, a little. Tobio liked their height difference, however negligible. “I’m _choosing_ to show some of them, because I know they’re good, and that people will like them.”

“You don’t think I’ll like your art?”

Akira avoided his eyes. “Maybe.”

Hurt panged in his stomach. “Why not?”

“I’d be embarrassed if I ever showed you the paintings still at my place.”

“Why?” Tobio said again.

“Geeze, does this really bother you?”

“I don’t want you to think I look down on you.”

It was a factor Tobio hated between them, money. Tobio lived in a high-rise in midtown. Akira shared an apartment downtown with two other people. Nearly twice a week the words _move in with me_ threatened to burst out of Tobio’s mouth. He held his tongue for the sake of Akira’s quiet pride.

Akira finished his orange juice and tossed their trash in the garbage bin. “You free right now?” he asked.

Tobio was.

  
  


The floor was cold against Tobio’s socked feet. Akira’s roommates were both working, so the apartment was empty. Akira led him past a small living room, an even smaller kitchen, down the hall to the last door. He glanced over his shoulder at Tobio, twisted the doorknob, and pushed it open.

Tobio stepped forward and stared. He stared for a long time, long enough that Akira squirmed and tapped his foot impatiently.

Aside from a bed and a dresser, the room was full of art. Hanging on the walls, sitting on the floor, leaning against every possible surface. Tobio counted a total of four large, wooden palettes and five whole jars of paintbrushes. The room was awash with blue, in every shade, luminosity, and saturation. Akira had painted torsos, arms, mouths, eyes, from every angle. It felt like stepping into a hall of mirrors.

An unfinished painting sat on the sole easel. Tobio moved closer. His own form stared back. His body was in profile and nude. The nearer leg was pulled close to his chest. His cheek rested on his knee. His eyes were half-closed and piercing.

Tobio raised an arm and reached out, holding his fingertips just millimeters away from the surface. “I look like that?”

“Do you not like it?” Akira had not moved from his spot in the doorway.

“I didn’t say that.” Tobio dropped his hand and stared. “I didn’t know I could look like this.”

“Well, you do.” Heat at Tobio’s back. Akira wrapped his arms around Tobio’s waist. “I don’t know what I’ll do with them. I can’t exactly exhibit them all.”

“I’d buy them,” Tobio said instantly. He’d purchase each one, and not in a narcissistic way. Each one was a piece of Akira.

Akira huffed. “No thanks. Your head would become gargantuan.”

“Big word.” Tobio leaned back. “I love them, in case that wasn’t clear.”

Akira brushed his nose against the side of Tobio’s neck. “Good.”

  
  


The night was young. In this part of town, the lamplights were yellow and seemed to be at half-brightness at all times. Akira’s hand curled around his waist. Tobio’s arm was slung around Akira’s shoulders. They stumbled down the sidewalk together, laughing, in the quiet way of theirs. Tobio had already forgotten why.

“What’s this?”

They turned. It was John Caldwell, a stern-faced shareholder from the hospital, exiting a taxi. His gaze was hard.

“Oh.” Tobio stood up straight. “Evening, Dr. Caldwell.”

“Evening.”

Akira’s hand fell. He tidied himself.

Tobio cleared his throat. “This is my friend Akira.”

“I see.” Caldwell tipped his head, cloaking his face in shadow. “Have a good evening, Kageyama.”

“You too.”

Caldwell walked up to a building’s steps and inside. Tobio felt like he’d been dunked underwater.

Akira took one heavy breath. “I should go home.”

His mouth was full of thorns. “If that’s what you want.”

Akira took a half-step away. Tobio drunk in his face lit with yellow light. “Bye, Tobio.”

“Bye, Akira.”

  
  


One year later, a package appeared on his doorstep with no return address. It was about the size of a medium canvas. Tobio peeled back the brown paper with care, and, laying his eyes on what lay within, started to cry.

Sacrifice was beautiful, in some strange way. Beautiful the way tsunamis and forest fires were beautiful. Akira understood that.

* * *

Or maybe he doesn’t want to be found.

* * *

_The Kingdom of Karasuno, 2020._

When Tobio died, he wanted them to write on his urn: _Tsukishima did it._ It was the four-eyed bastard’s plan, he just knew it.

“HELLO,” Tobio bellowed. It echoed in the small space. He wondered whether any of these cleaning products would topple if he yelled loud enough. “ANYONE.”

He was the king, damn it, he should have Tsukishima tried for treason and conspiracy, and banished. Where were the housekeepers? Surely one of them needed extra paper towels or feather dusters. And what kind of closet didn’t open from the inside?

Footsteps. Tobio sat up, got to his feet. “IN HERE,” he said again.

The door creaked open. Azumane looked frazzled. Tsukishima managed to fake some concern. Between them, looking unimpressed, was Kunimi Akira, advisor to Prince Oikawa Tooru of Seijoh.

“My king,” said Tsukishima. “There you are, we’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Your grace!” said Azumane. “Are you alright?”

Kunimi said nothing.

“I’m fine,” Tobio gritted out. “Who found me?”

“Kunimi-san here heard your distressed cries.” Tsukishima pushed up his glasses. “How did you end up in a supply closet, your grace?”

He swore he felt a vein twitch in his forehead. “That’s irrelevant. Thank you, Kunimi-san.”

“Of course, your grace.” Kunimi’s voice was low and toneless. His eyes were the color of chocolate. Tobio swallowed.

“Thank you, Azumane, you may go. Tsukishima, a word.”

Tobio stepped past them and stalked down the long hall, reeling in his anger. Kei followed. He turned a corner, through the courtyard, to his personal residential wing. He halted, pinched the bridge of his nose, and counted to ten before turning around.

“Did you enjoy your little prank, Tsukishima? Are you amused?”

Kei crossed his arms. “I did you a favor.”

“By imprisoning me and humiliating me in front of an ambassador?”

“You were stuck there for fifteen minutes, don’t be so dramatic.” Kei waved a hand.

“Know your place,” Tobio snarled. “That won’t happen again.”

Kei’s face shuttered. “Of course, your grace. Don’t fret, I’m perfectly aware of my place.”

Tobio blinked. “Kei—”

“Am I dismissed, your grace?”

He sighed. “Yes. You may go.”

Tsukishima bowed stiffly and trudged away. Tobio closed his eyes. It was going to be a long two weeks.

  
  


There was a long and complex history regarding the Karasuno-Seijoh border dispute, all of which Tobio was forced to learn at age seven. The land in question was Sakanoshita, a tiny strip of land less than one hundred square miles in total. Its soil, however, was extremely fertile, which had made Sakanoshita a prime piece of farmland for the past thousand years. The bulk of the land belonged to the Ukai clan, who had served the Kageyama dynasty for generations.

In recent years, Seijoh armed forces had been trickling onto the land under the guise of capturing poachers. Despite reporting that the criminals had been apprehended, Seijoh soldiers remained in Karasuno territory with vague explanations of why. The tensions came to a head in January, when a Seijoh lieutenant pushed the Ukai patriarch to the ground, causing a broken arm and leg. It became a scandal all over Asia, which was bad press for Seijoh. The Honorable and Ancient House of Oikawa sent their youngest son to settle the matter once and for all.

Or at least until Tobio died.

He was growing increasingly sure that very thing would happen soon. If not by assassins on the Oikawas’ payroll, then by his own advisor.

He had been sitting in this chair for _hours_ talking with Prince Tooru, who was tremendously skilled at diverting the conversation to where he wanted. General Iwaizumi—why Oikawa brought a _general_ to border talks was beyond Tobio—sat and glared. Yamaguchi at least made efforts to diffuse the growing tension in the room, but the man could only do so much. Tsukishima at Tobio’s right was not much help.

“Kunimi-san, what does the data say about imports from Sakanoshita into Seijoh?” Tsukishima said. “Kunimi-san, how many Seijoh nationals have migrated into Sakanoshita in the last eighty years?”

 _Kunimi-san_ this, _Kunimi-san_ that. The thing was, Kunimi was a mere statistician. He had no real sway over the delegation. He just swiped on his iPad, displayed charts on the projector, and looked bored.

Tobio didn't know how, but Oikawa had caught on too. He kept turning to Kunimi and leaning close to look at the screen, _ooh_ -ing and _aah_ -ing at data that was all very mundane. The general’s scowl deepened with each occurrence.

“Prince Tooru,” Tobio said. “I don’t understand why we must go in circles about this issue. The land has legally been Karasuno’s since the 1940s. The Ukai family has been loyal to the Crow’s Crown for even longer.”

“The Ukai clan is only one family out of hundreds in Sakanoshita,” Oikawa said. “Kunimi, pull up the table again. Ah, there. Over fifty-six percent of the Sakanoshita population descend from settlers from Seijoh.”

“But they live _here._ In _Karasuno._ ”

“They have Seijoh relics in their homes, tell their children Seijoh tales, and practice Seijoh traditions.”

 _Seijoh traditions_ his ass, they were all Japanese here. What did it matter whether their passports were orange or blue? “They hold Karasuno citizenship.”

“Which is easily changed with a hop across the border, thanks to your grandfather’s inefficient policies.”

Tobio was grateful that Hinata was sick with food poisoning and Yamaguchi was beside him instead, ready to hold him back. His other advisor would most likely egg him on as he drove fist after fist into Oikawa’s stupid face.

“Actually,” Kunimi said. Tobio froze. “If I may. Those policies were drafted before Kazuyo-heika’s reign. They were simply passed during those years.”

Kunimi once again studied his iPad. Oikawa slunk back into his chair. “My apologies, then.”

Tobio pinched his nose. “All is forgiven.” He glanced at Tsukishima, whose face was impassive. “Perhaps it’s time to recess for the day.”

Oikawa nodded. “I agree.”

They stood and bowed at the same time, as protocol dictated. Tobio let the Seijoh council file out first.

He caught Kunimi’s eye. Kunimi blinked, tipped his head, and whisked away after Oikawa.

Tsukishima cleared his throat, startling Tobio, and gestured for him to proceed. “Take a breather, your grace. He’ll still be there tomorrow.”

Tobio wished he had Kei’s ability to be unfazed by anything.

  
  


The kitchen was probably the last place in the castle Tobio expected to find Kunimi at two in the morning. He looked down at his own flannel pants and henley shirt, checking for crumbs.

“Oh,” said Kunimi. He bowed briefly. “I apologize, your grace, I didn’t know anyone would be here at this hour.”

Tobio chugged water to wash down the spoonful of curry. “It’s alright, this area isn’t off-limits.”

“If it please you.” Kunimi skirted behind the island and scanned the kitchen. After some minutes he grabbed a peach from the fruit bowl, filled a glass with water, and sat in a stool diagonal from Tobio.

Tobio got up to rinse his plate in the sink and sat back down. He flexed his fingers. “Have…”

Kunimi glanced up.

“H...ow long have you been employed by Prince Tooru?”

Kunimi chewed and swallowed. “Since I finished my master’s. Four years ago.”

“Which university?”

“University of Sendai City. Class of 2016.”

Tobio blinked. Kunimi had gone to school _here?_ “Sendai?”

“It has an excellent math program.”

“Were you born here?”

“No, your grace, I’m Seijoh born and raised.”

“Then…”

“I’ve known Kindaichi—Tooru-sama’s bodyguard—since elementary. When I finished grad school, he vouched for me and got me the job.”

“Lucky,” said Tobio. “Did you like Sendai?”

Kunimi placed his peach pit on a napkin. “Your city is beautiful, your grace,” he said. He stood, circled the island, and tossed the napkin in the garbage disposal. “Have a nice night, King Tobio.”

The swinging door shut behind him. Tobio sat there for a while and wondered if the moon was full.

  
  


The koi pond had been his favorite spot for sulking since he was a young boy. If Miwa or his parents or his tutors upset him, he would run off and sit by the water, watching the fish blink orange and black. His family had always made sure to pay the resident aquarist handsomely.

Tobio had not sulked in some time, but today Prince Tooru had grated his last nerve. It would be undignified for him to curl up in a ball like he used to. Instead he sat straight-backed on the bench, staring at the rippling water and breathing in, out, following Hinata’s meditation techniques. The sun was sinking below the rooftops in the distance.

Someone was behind him.

“Please, Kei, not now,” he sighed.

“Apologies, your grace, but I’m not Tsukishima-san.”

Tobio turned his head slowly. Kunimi stood with his hands limp at his sides, his face still.

“May I?” said Kunimi.

Tobio scooted down the bench and nodded. Kunimi took a seat. There were about 15 centimeters of space between their thighs. Tobio looked back to the pond.

“I apologize for my prince’s behavior,” Kunimi began. “General Iwaizumi would apologize as well, except Tooru-sama would give him the cold shoulder for three weeks.”

Tobio huffed a small laugh. The koi were excited. “Kunimi-san. Why are you telling me this?”

“I dislike seeing princes rag on sovereign kings.”

“Why?”

Kunimi sighed. “Tooru-sama, in his own heart, considers Sakanoshita to be Karasuno’s land. But his family gave him a mission, and he intends to carry it out.”

“I won’t back down.”

“He knows that. Neither will he. I suppose this matter will end in a stalemate.”

Tobio’s shoulders sunk. “But you’re still here.”

“I am.”

“Is this a last-ditch effort to seduce me?”

Kunimi lifted his head. He didn’t speak for a long moment. “What I feel for you is real, your grace.”

The words punched him in the gut. Tobio’s lips parted.

“However, I’m well aware of the dubious ethics of sleeping with me. The implausibility of a long-term relationship notwithstanding.” Kunimi lowered his gaze. “But— just once—”

“Kunimi.” Tobio searched his eyes. His heart was beating something fierce. “Come to my chambers, tonight.”

They stared at each other. “I will.”

  
  


Despite two weeks of deliberation, the kingdoms of Seijoh and Karasuno had not come to a resolution. Tobio stood on the steps of the palace, facing Oikawa and his entourage. They bowed to one another at the waist. The Seijoh delegates descended the steps, to the bulletproof van waiting to drive them across the border.

Kunimi’s head jerked, as if he’d meant to turn back but stopped midway. He climbed into the vehicle after Prince Tooru and the general. They drove away, down the long, long road to the blue castle.

* * *

Close. Closer.

* * *

_Los Angeles County, 2011._

Tobio would forfeit his whole months’ salary to never hear _Mr. Saxobeat_ again. Their manager, however, insisted on playing only American Top 40 Hits, so Tobio was stuck with that, _International Love_ by Pitbull, and _S &M _by Rihanna on loop.

Rihanna was okay. He could tolerate her songs for a couple of hours.

“Oi, Tobio.”

He looked up. Akira was carrying a platter of sliced fruit to the counter.

“Can you refill the plain tart? I think it’s getting low.”

“Okay,” said Tobio, and he did as he was asked.

The door chimed open. “Welcome to Yogurtland,” Akira intoned. Tobio hid behind the wall of yogurt dispensers and slumped.

Working at Yogurtland wasn’t _bad._ A little boring, yeah, but the store perpetually smelled like strawberries and sometimes Tobio sneaked samples for himself. At least his coworker was someone he knew.

Still, he was insanely jealous of Yuutarou working at Dick’s Sporting Goods, across the hall thirty feet away. Ignoring the fact that it had the word _dick_ in it, the thought of being near sports equipment all day was infinitely more appealing than serving frozen yogurt, no matter how much Tobio loved dairy.

Akira kneed him in the outside of his thigh, finished with assisting the customer. “Oi, are you thinking about Yuu again?”

“Maybe,” Tobio grumbled.

“It’s only for two more months.” Akira looked ridiculous in the black visor that was part of their uniform. It parted his hair weird. “This is paying for—”

“All our new equipment, I know.”

Despite their volleyball team having its best lineup in years, their school was more interested in funding shoulder pads and helmets for the football team. But if they had brand new volleyballs and nets and uniforms, they had a shot at making CIF Championships in May.

Tobio would lead them there. He’d do what Tooru never could.

“Besides,” Akira said. “It’s fun to people-watch.”

He cocked his head. “People-watch?”

Akira stared, deadpan. “Jesus, is volleyball the sole occupant of your brain?”

“More or less.”

“I mean it’s fun to watch whoever comes in here and make assumptions about them.”

“Isn’t that sort of mean?”

Akira shrugged. “It’s not like I’ll say any of it to them. Just try it, Tobio.” He went to the back, probably to squeeze caramel onto a spoon and eat it.

  
  


Tobio decided to take Akira’s advice, desperate to quell some of the boredom of working in food service. The next shift, a couple people they knew came to visit.

“Tobio!” sang Tooru, bursting through the door. He was flanked by Hajime, Takahiro, and Issei. “How’s my favorite scrub!”

“Oh god.” Tobio abandoned cleaning the yogurt machines in favor of dashing behind the counter. “Akira, call mall security.”

Tooru crossed his arms. “Mean, Tobio! Your old teammates are just here to check on you.”

“Hurry up, dumbass,” Hajime called.

The other three had already grabbed cups and were busy choosing flavors. Tooru followed. Nicki Minaj was blaring throughout the store. Takahiro paid for Issei’s and his own, winked at Tobio and Akira, and took a seat at the nearest table.

Tobio drummed his fingers on the counter. Hajime was right in front of him, spooning Fruity Pebbles and strawberries onto his swirl of plain tart. “Captain, huh?” Hajime said.

“Y-yes.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thank you.” Tobio cleared his throat. “How is UCI, Hajime?”

Tooru popped into vision. “What’s it to you?”

Hajime shoved him away with a shoulder. “He’s being _polite,_ Tooru, you’re so insecure. To answer your question, it’s super Asian.”

“Oh,” Tobio said. “Is that… good?”

“It is what it is.” Hajime moved to the side, giving space for Tooru. He stared at the display of toppings.

“Please hurry, Tooru, we don’t want spit ending up on the food because of your mouth-breathing,” Akira said.

Tooru gasped. “Tobio’s corrupted you, too!”

Takahiro and Issei snickered in their spots. Akira was smirking. Tooru huffed, finished choosing, and put his cup on the scale next to Hajime’s. “Good luck on college apps,” Tooru said, looking down his nose at Tobio. “I’m looking forward to beating you on the court, wherever you end up.”

Tobio blinked. “Thank you. But _I’ll_ be beating _you._ ”

Hajime grabbed a spoon. “We all know I’ll be the champion, ‘kay?”

“Hmph!” said Tooru. He let himself be led to the table, where the four dove into a conversation about college parties or girls or something.

In the corner of Tobio’s eye, Akira was waving his hand, under the counter. Tobio met his eye. Akira pointed at Hajime and mouthed _watch._

He tried not to be too obvious as he studied Hajime sitting next to Tooru. Underneath the table, their thighs were touching hip to knee. The tips of Hajime’s Nike Air Forces brushed against Tooru’s Converses. Tooru was arguing with Takahiro, Issei was chiming in, and Hajime—

Hajime was staring at Tooru. If Tobio remembered anything from Shakespeare he’d probably say _like he hung the stars in the sky,_ but he didn’t, so the word that came to mind was _mushy._

Tobio looked wide-eyed at Akira, who had retreated behind the wall. _Are they together,_ he mouthed.

Akira dipped his head once. Tobio tried not to let his jaw drop. He practically vibrated in place until their former teammates finished their food. They exited with various promises to visit again or crush them in battle, and headed across the hall to Dick’s Sporting Goods.

“What,” said Tobio, when the door was closed. _“What!”_

“Took them long enough,” Akira said. He wiped the counter down. “I was _sure_ they were together our freshman year, but then Tooru had that girlfriend for a couple months.”

“What!” Since _freshman year?_

Akira raised a brow. “You seriously didn’t notice?”

“No…” Tobio liked to think his people skills had improved since starting high school, but evidently he had a long way to go.

Akira patted his shoulder. “Keep at it, Tobio.”

  
  


The next day. Two guys. One was around Tobio’s height, had bleached blond hair, and wore a perpetual smirk. The other: significantly shorter, with strange hair that started white at the roots and faded into black. The first guy looked like he belonged in an Abercrombie ad. The second guy looked like he belonged in a catalog for wacky hair dye.

“Captain, do you want me to get you some?” said the first guy.

“I'm not your captain anymore,” said the second. “And I can get some on my own.”

“Yo.” The first guy caught Akira’s attention. “Do you have any prepackaged yogurt? For my brother?”

“Uh, no,” said Akira. Tobio could almost hear his _I didn't ask who it was for._

“Dang. Okay.” The blond guy got his yogurt and toppings, singing along to the Lady Gaga song playing from the speakers. “Shinsuke, this song reminds me of you.”

“Does it now,” said Shinsuke. It was _Poker Face._ The two got their food, and upon coming to the register, fought over who would pay.

“I'll treat you, captain!”

“Atsumu, I can pay for you, it's no trouble—”

Eventually, they each paid for their own. “Thank you,” said Shinsuke out the door, and Atsumu echoed him.

“Well?” Akira said.

Tobio tapped his chin. “Blond guy has liked poker face for a long time, and... I can't tell how poker face feels.”

Akira smirked and patted his shoulder. “You'll get the hang of it. Poker face likes him back.”

  
  


The next day. A brown-haired dude built like a tree trunk with straight eyebrows, trailed by a tanner kid with an absolutely tragic bowl cut.

“Mr. Ushijima,” said the bowl cut kid.

“No need to call me ‘mister,’” said Mr. Ushijima.

“W-Wakatoshi, I can pay for us both!” said the bowl cut kid.

Ushi— Wakatoshi frowned. His cup had peanut butter yogurt and nothing else. “It’s fine. You can pay for yourself,” He handed his black card to Tobio.

The kid slumped. His cup, too, had peanut butter yogurt. He dropped in some mini Reese’s cups and topped it off Oreo crumbs. He paid sadly and followed Wakatoshi outside.

Tobio looked at Akira. “Ushijima is bowl cut’s tutor. Bowl cut has a huge gay crush on him, which he doesn’t notice.”

Akira hummed. “Oh, he noticed. He just doesn’t care.”

  
  


The next day. A tall, athletic-looking guy with spiky black hair. A shorter guy with long hair that was bleached at the ends. Short guy stood right in front of the door, playing a game on his DS. Tall guy went to the cup dispenser, assembled two of them with ease, and gave a charming smile as he paid.

“Thank you,” said tall guy. His voice was pleasant and deep. They left without another word.

Akira looked at him expectantly.

“Either childhood best friends, or tall guy is short guy’s sugar daddy.”

Akira laughed, out-loud and full. It happened so rarely Tobio was taken aback. “You were right the first time.” He pushed at Tobio’s shoulder. “Now go clean the bathroom.”

  
  


There was one regular Tobio couldn’t figure out. He had fiery red hair and warm brown eyes. Though he was on the shorter side, he looked to be Tobio’s age. Sometimes the boy came in with a really lanky blond guy with glasses, a freckled kid with long greenish hair, or a short, plump girl with yellow hair. Sometimes Tobio made eye contact with him and he made a weird squeaking noise and hid his face in his cup.

After about three visits the dude spoke up. “What’s your name?”

Tobio glanced down at his nametag. “Uh, Tobio.”

The dude flushed red, which clashed with his hair. “Oh yeah. I’m Shouyou.”

“Cool,” Tobio said lamely.

Shouyou kept blushing. He handed Tobio a five-dollar bill, took his change, and blurted in a rush, “ _ThanksseeyouonTuesdayprobablybye_.” He was an orange blur out the door.

“What was that about?” Tobio said after several beats of silence.

Akira stared at the mop in his hand. “Beats me.”

  
  


Shouyou came in again on Tuesday. Maybe Tobio imagined it, but there seemed to be a determined gait in his step as he strode to the cash register. Tobio took a cautious step back. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Tadashi said I should just go for it,” Shouyou said. Tobio had no idea who Tadashi was. “Do you like boys, Tobio?”

“ _What?_ ” What? Who just asked a stranger questions like that?

“Well?” Shouyou placed both hands on either side of the scale.

“Um, I don’t know,” said Tobio. “I probably could.”

“Are you seeing anyone right now?”

“No.” He gulped. Akira on his left was watching this all happen silently.

“Do you want to go out with me?” Shouyou said. His eyes were ablaze.

This was the strangest thing that had ever happened in Tobio’s life. “Okay.”

Like a light switch, Shouyou changed. He put his weight back on his heels and beamed. “Great! There’s a showing for Cars 2 this Friday at the cinema in the mall.” A slip of paper appeared in his hand, held out to Tobio.

He took it, still reeling. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you Friday, Tobio.” Shouyou walked out without even buying anything.

Tobio stared at the ticket in his hand. “I guess that’s why he’s always in here.”

The bill of Akira’s visor covered his face. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  
  


Two years later, he stood in front of the grocery store freezer, deliberating. They didn’t sell this particular brand in the Targets by UCSD, so he needed to savor it before he went back for the fall quarter.

“Tobio?”

He turned. Akira had a new haircut. It’d been almost a whole year since he saw his old teammate.

“Akira!” Tobio, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward and hugged him briefly. “You staying home for the summer?”

“Yeah,” said Akira. “I have to get back home before my mom kills me, but let’s catch up soon?”

“Definitely.”

Akira held up a peace sign. “I’ll text you, Tobio.”

“Sure.” He watched Akira leave and turned back to the freezer. Mango, he decided. Shouyou liked mango.

* * *

* * *

* * *

There’s a door in front of him, left ajar. Now, he thinks.

* * *

Kageyama, spotting the two figures inside, almost spins on his heel and walks right out. But he isn’t a coward, and chances are they won’t even see him, so he marches up to the register and orders an iced chai latte. He stands beside the pick-up counter and ducks his head, but of course, he makes eye contact with Kunimi throwing away a napkin as they pass.

Kunimi’s eyes widen. “Kageyama?”

Kindaichi stops in his tracks and whips his head around. “Kageyama?”

That’s his name. “...Hi.”

  
  


It’s awkward. Kageyama is the only one with a drink. Kindaichi won’t stop shuffling from foot to foot. Kunimi’s face is flat as ever. They’re standing outside the café, saying nothing. The vast blue sky is clear.

“We watched your matches during Spring High,” says Kindaichi, finally.

“Kindaichi,” Kunimi hisses, and is ignored.

“You were really good. ‘Specially against the Miya twins.”

Kageyama stares at the ground, throat suddenly tight. “Thank you. Really.”

Kunimi sighs. “Pity about Chibi-chan, though,” he says offhandedly.

Kageyama closes his eyes. “Yeah. Pity.”

Silence falls. His latte is halfway gone. Kindaichi fidgets again. “We practice on Monday mornings at the Youth Center.”

There’s a tightness in Kageyama’s chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Jesus, Kindaichi,” Kunimi says under his breath. “Let’s _go.”_

“Bye, Kageyama.” Kindaichi tips his head and lets himself be pushed away. Kageyama finishes his drink and walks home with a boa constrictor around his ribcage.

  
  


His palms are sweaty. They didn’t even get sweaty before they played Inarizaki, so why now? Kageyama steps into the small gymnasium wearing his usual _The Way of the Setter_ T-shirt and black shorts. Only one court is occupied. Three people are bumping a Molten volleyball between them.

Kageyama blinks in surprise. “Iwaizumi-san?”

They halt. Kunimi grabs the volleyball midair and cradles it to his stomach.

“Oh, Kageyama,” says Kindaichi.

“You showed up after all,” says Iwaizumi. “Don’t tell Oikawa.”

Kageyama drops his sports bag by the wall. “I wouldn't dare. Don’t you have school soon, Iwaizumi-san?”

“I’m studying abroad, actually. In California. Orientation isn’t until August.” Iwaizumi ducks beneath the net and jerks his head. “Let’s play two-on-twos. Kindaichi, with me. You need to practice your setting skills.”

As they shuffle to get to their places, Kageyama is frozen. What was he _thinking?_ If Nishinoya or Tanaka found out he was at a private practice with people from _Seijoh_ they’d tear into him.

No. That’s not it.

He’s afraid. He hasn’t felt fear like this since last June, when Coach pulled him out and sent Suga-san in. Kageyama wishes he’d told Hinata about this little escapade. At least he’d know someone would be there to hit his toss.

Iwaizumi whistles curtly and rolls the ball towards him. “Yours, Kageyama. I want to see if I can receive that killer serve.”

Kageyama catches it. He walks behind the white line, takes a deep breath, and thinks of all the ways he’s changed since last summer.

The serve toss feels good, precise. The ball floats in the air, unmoving, as he jumps-curves–snaps forward. It flies across the net.

“Shit!” Iwaizumi hustles to dig it, but it spins off his wrists and out of bounds. A familiar thrill climbs up Kageyama’s spine. _Service ace._

“Goddamn, Kageyama!” Kindaichi says.

The next serve toss is the same, but he didn’t put enough power into it. Iwaizumi bumps it into a high arc. Kindaichi sends the ball back to Iwaizumi, who makes a brutal cross. Kunimi is there, though, and receives cleanly, bringing the ball perfectly to center.

Kageyama’s heart beats like a hummingbird in his chest. A mid-height toss, not too high or low, slightly fast, handled with utmost care. He learned that from Miya-san. _I’ll make you care._

The ball slams past Kindaichi’s block, too quick for Iwaizumi to get in the air.

“Two-zero,” says Kageyama. “Nice kill.”

Kunimi retrieves the ball and hands it to him. “Nice toss.”

  
  


This is the second practice match with Aoba Johsai in as many months. Tanaka chews on a piece of beef jerky and scrutinizes him on the bus. “You’re not telling them any of our secrets, are you?”

“Of course I’m not.” Kageyama tugs on his bangs. “I’m the one collecting information on _them._ ”

“If they manage to block my new back attack I’m blaming it on you, Traitor-yama!” Hinata bumps Kageyama’s shoulder with his obnoxious head.

“You’re the one who texts Goshiki, like, all the time. And if they stuff your back attack it’ll be _your_ fault.”

In the gym, Ennoshita leads them in their greetings. “Let’s have a good game!” The whistle blows. Kageyama’s serve. Across the net, he locks eyes with Kunimi, and throws the ball in the air.

  
  


In June, Kageyama splashes water onto his face in a bathroom in the Sendai City Gymnasium. Karasuno generally does better at Spring Nationals than Interhigh, but this year he really thought they had a chance. Though he’s no stranger to loss, the final moments of the match flash in his mind’s eye. Tanaka is stronger than Kageyama is, with his unwavering psyche, but Kageyama can’t forget the shadow that fell across his face when the ball dropped.

He turns the faucet off. The others will be waiting for him. He pushes the bathroom door open with an elbow and freezes. Kunimi leans against the wall. A carton of milk is in his hand.

Kageyama sniffles. “You’re here?”

He nods. “Kindaichi watched, too.”

Kunimi extends the milk towards him. Kageyama takes it wordlessly.

“There’s still Haruko,” Kunimi says. “It’s not over yet, Kageyama.”

  
  


In December, Kageyama receives several gifts. He receives separate texts from Kindaichi and Kunimi in the morning. Tsukishima gives him strawberry milk from a vending machine. Yamaguchi gives him some heat packs and Salonpas. Yachi gives him a phone charm shaped like a volleyball. The third and first years, at Hinata’s recommendation, split the cost of a _signed Nicolas Romero jersey._ It’s the closest he’s come to crying in a long time.

In the evening, after the small party at his house, Hinata leads him to the convenience store and makes Kageyama buy _him_ a meat bun. Hinata presses a book entitled _Secrets of the Animal Kingdom_ into his hands, then presses a kiss to his lips.

Several things make sense, now. Kageyama kisses back.

  
  


In October, Kageyama breathes in deep the smell of this gym he’s come to know so well. The TV crews are set up. Orange and teal fill either side of the stands. He goes over the formations with Coach, Takeda-sensei, and Yamaguchi one more time before the ref calls the captains over.

Kindaichi shakes Yamaguchi’s hand. Kunimi shakes Kageyama’s, firm. This is the hand that blocked Goshiki. Aoba Johsai won their first official match against Shiratorizawa in four years.

“Let’s have a good game,” they say in unison. The last one Kageyama will ever play against these two.

It’s a long and grueling game. He’s played plenty of five-set matches before, but knowing that this will be his last time playing against a team from Miyagi makes him dive for the ball faster, jump to block higher, dedicate all five of his senses to the game. He sends Hinata a toss that blasts between Kunimi’s arms, scoring the first set point.

“It’s too early to be getting lazy, Kunimi!” Kageyama says, grinning in spite of himself. Kunimi’s smile is just as wild.

26-28.

25-22.

26-29.

32-30.

In the fifth set, Kageyama and Hinata stuff Kindaichi’s last spike. The moment is so vivid, so clear—and instantly he knows he will never forget it. Like the ball dropping at the end of their first Interhigh match against Seijoh, like blocking Miya Osamu’s quick, like sending Tanaka-san the last toss against Datekou.

The whistle blows. 20-22. He wraps Hinata in an embrace, pupils shaking with emotion, as the team crowds around them. Déjà vu hits him like a fist. He looks across the net at Kindaichi and Kunimi hanging their heads.

When they stand on opposite sides once more to shake hands, Kunimi speaks. “You win again, Kageyama.”

Kageyama squeezes Kunimi’s hand. “Thank you for playing with me.”

All he gets is a nod. Kunimi walks away in teal and white.

  
  


In March, Hinata curls Kageyama’s fist closed with a sad smile. The second button on his school jacket is missing.

“Don’t wait for me, Kageyama,” Hinata whispers. “Promise me.”

He closes his eyes. Some chamber of his heart is sewn shut, surely. “I promise.”

  
  


In November, Kageyama is dragged by his teammates to a club in Shibuya. He has never envied Ushijima’s strength and size more than that moment. He spends the bulk of the night on a couch, his glower enough to drive away every man or woman who attempts to approach him.

“Is this a club or a funeral?”

Kageyama jerks at the voice. _“Kunimi?”_ A previous conversation comes to mind: _I’m going to Chuo University._

“Geez, Kageyama. You’ve still got that dark presence about you.” Kunimi plops into the seat next to him. It’s dark in the club, but Kunimi’s outline is as clear as in daylight. His hair is different. It looks nice. “Tell me what it’s like to be on the national team.”

  
  


In July, Kageyama plays on the world stage.

His last night in Rio, he sneaks out of the Olympic Village, making his way through the busy streets with trepidation. Hinata lives in a small apartment by the beach. On Hinata’s porch, they drink one bottle of beer each and talk about how Tsukishima joined his university team even though he swore he wouldn’t.

When Hinata leans in, Kageyama stops him with a gentle hand to the shoulder. “You said not to wait for you.”

“I did. Did you?”

A face flashes in his mind. Lips he still has never kissed. “No. I’m waiting for someone else.”

“Does he know?”

“Maybe. Probably not.”

“You should tell him.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Be safe on your way back, Kageyama. Good luck.”

“I will. Thank you.”

  
  


In Haneda International Airport, Kageyama holds a phone to his ear. “Are you sure you’re not skipping class?”

“As if I’d skip anything to pick up your directions-impaired ass,” Kunimi drawls. “I told you, I’m by the gift shop.”

“Do you know how many damn gift shops are in a single airport?”

“Fine.” A beat, as Kunimi relocates, probably. “Now I’m between Café Nenrinya and the Tumi store.”

“Okay.” Kageyama glances at the upright display and heads in the right direction. “Did you watch the games?” he musters the courage to ask.

Kunimi scoffs. “Of course I did.”

“Good.” The terminal is a sea of colors and people. The commotion and sound of a thousand travelers.

Kunimi is wearing blue jeans and a navy blazer over his white shirt. He’s leaning against the wall beside a large planter, and hasn’t spotted Kageyama yet. His face is lifted, anxious and hopeful.

Kageyama opens his mouth. They lock eyes.

“Found you.”

Kunimi smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please leave a comment if you liked it.
> 
> [fic extras and insp](https://iphido.tumblr.com/private/638630372156080128/tumblr_trZ0aOGCnx4a86oqe)


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